The House of Walderne. A. D. Crake

but they know nought of the Gospel of love and peace. Their religion is limited to a few outward observances," said the chaplain, "which, separated from the living Spirit, only fulfil the words: 'The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life.'"

      "Ah, well, my boy, God speed thee on thy path, and preserve thee for that day when thou shalt come as a messenger of peace to them that sit in darkness," said the earl.

      "Thine," he continued, 'is a far nobler ambition than that of the warrior, thine the task to save, his to destroy.

      "What sayest thou, Hubert?"

      "I would fain be a soldier of the Cross, like my father, and cut down the Paynim."

      "Like a godly knight I once knew, who, called upon to convert a Saracen, said the Creed and told him he was to believe it. The Saracen, as one might have expected, uttered some words of scorn, and the good knight straight-way clove him to the chine."

      "It was short and simple, my lord; I should like to convert them that way best."

      The chaplain sighed.

      "Oh, Hubert!" said Martin.

      The earl listened and smiled a sad smile.

      "Well, there is work for you both. Mine is not yet done in the busy fighting world; rivers of blood have I seen shed, nay, helped to shed, and I must answer to God for the way in which I have played my part; yet I thank Him that He did not disdain to call one whose career lay in like bloody paths 'the man after His own heart.'"

      "It is lawful to draw sword in a good cause, my lord," said the chaplain.

      "I never doubted it, but I say that Martin's ambition is more Christ-like--is it not?"

      "It is indeed."

      "Yet should I be called to lay down my life in some bloody field, if it be my duty, the path to heaven may not be more difficult than from the convent cell."

      These last words he said as if to himself, but years afterwards, on an occasion yet to be related, they came back to the mind of our Martin.

      Upon a horse, which he had learned at length to manage well; with two attendants in the earl's livery by his side, Martin set forth; his last farewells said. Yet he looked back with more or less sadness to the kind friends he was leaving, to tread all alone the paths of an unknown city, and associate with strangers.

      As they passed through Warwick, the gates of the castle opened, and the earl of that town came forth with a gallant hunting suite; he recognised our young friend.

      "Ah, Martin, Martin," he said, 'whither goest thou so equipped and attended?"

      "To Oxenford, to be a scholar, good my lord."

      "And after that?"

      "To go forth with the cord of Saint Francis around me."

      "Ah, it was he who taught thee to kill my deerhound. Well, fare thee well, lad, and when thou art a priest say a mass for me, for I sorely need it."

      He waved his hand, and the cavalcade swept onward.

      They rode through a wild tract of heath land. Cultivated fields there were few, tracts of furze--spinneys, as men then called small patches of wood--in plenty. The very road was a mere track over the grass, and it seemed like what we should now call riding across country.

      At length they drew near the old town of Southam, where they made their noontide halt and refreshed themselves at the hostelry of the "Bear and Ragged Staff," for the people were dependants of the mighty Lord of Warwick.

      Then through a dreary country, almost uninhabited, save by the beasts of the chase, they rode for Banbury. Twice or thrice indeed they passed knots of wild uncouth men, in twos or threes, who might have been dangerous to the unattended traveller, but saw no prospect of aught but good sound blows should they attack these retainers of Leicester.

      And now they reached the "town of cakes" (I know not whether they made the luscious compound we call Banbury cakes then), and passed the time at the chief hostelry of the town, sharing the supper with twenty or thirty other wayfarers, and sleeping with some of them in a great loft above the common room on trusses of hay and straw.

      It was rough accommodation, but Martin's early education had not rendered him squeamish, neither were his attendants.

      The following day they rode through Adderbury, where not long before an unhappy miscreant, who counterfeited the Saviour and deluded a number of people, had been actually crucified by being nailed to a tree on the green. Then, an hour later, they left Teddington Castle, another stronghold of the Earl of Warwick, on their right: they were roughly accosted by the men-at-arms, but the livery of Leicester protected them.

      Soon after they approached the important town of Woodstock, with its ancient palace, where a century earlier Henry II had wiled away his time with Fair Rosamond. The park and chase were most extensive and deeply wooded; emerging from its umbrageous recesses, they saw a group of spires and towers.

      "Behold the spires of Oxenford!" cried the men.

      Martin's heart beat with ill-suppressed emotion--here was the object of his long desire, the city which he had seen again and again in his dreams. Headington Hill arose on the left, and the heights about Cumnor on the right. Between them rose the great square tower of Oxford Castle, and the huge mound {11} thrown up by the royal daughter of Alfred hard by; while all around arose the towers and spires of the learned city, then second only in importance to London.

      The first view of the Eternal City (Rome)--what volumes have been written upon the sensations which attend it. So was the first view of Oxford to our eager aspirant for monastic learning and ecclesiastical sanctity. Long he stood drinking in the sight, while his heart swelled within him and tears stood in his eyes; but the trance was roughly broken by his attendants.

      "Come, young master. We must hurry on, or we may not get in before nightfall, and there may be highwaymen lurking about the suburbs."

Chapter 6: At Walderne Castle.

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      The watcher on the walls of Walderne Castle sees the sun sink beneath the distant downs, flooding Mount Caburn and his kindred giants with crimson light. In the great hall supper is preparing. See them all trooping in--retainers, fighting men, serving men, all taking their places at the boards placed at right angles to the high table, where the seats of Sir Nicholas de Harengod and his lady are to be seen.

      He enters: a bluff stern warrior, in his undress, that is, without his panoply of armour and arms, in the long flowing robe affected by his Norman kindred at the festal board. She, with the comely robe which had superseded the gunna or gown, and the couvrechef (whence our word kerchief) on the head.

      The chaplain, who served the little chapel within the castle, says grace, and the company fall upon the food with little ceremony. We have so often described their manners, or rather absence of manners, that we will not repeat how the joints were carved in the absence of forks, nor how necessary the finger glasses were after meals, although they only graced the higher board.

      Wine, hippocras, mead, ale--there was plenty to eat and drink, and when the hunger was satisfied a palmer or pilgrim, who had but recently arrived from the Holy Land, sang a touching ballad about his adventures and sufferings in that Holy Land: